the things I (didn't) do before I leave
by kytaen
Summary: "Akaashi," Bokuto sobs against his shirt, wettening the fabric with dark, splotchy spots. This is the first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto cry so unashamedly. This is also the first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto.
1. day one: reaching shadows

**A/N: Rated T for character death and dark themes. Also on AO3 and my tumblr sideblog.**

The sirens splash blues and reds across the ink black pavement, wailing - no, it was a roar, a piercing roar stinging his ears and bounding his chest with thick, invisible ropes.

But the only thing he can see is white.

"And what is your relation to the casualty," the policeman says, one sound among many, from the siren to the drizzle of rain dancing rhythmically upon the wet pavement. His eyes are empty of emotion. Every now and then, a dash of color from the light cast by the sirens would cause a small glow in the man's pupils, and then fade away, darkening once more.

White headlights blinking, beaming in a gloating fashion. The road is white, the buildings are striped with white. His knuckles are white from the pressure he's placed upon them.

The boy swallows down tears and the bitter taste surrounding the roof of his mouth. "He... he's a friend." A crack in his wavering voice, caused by the silent torture of denial, and then all was quiet. "I was - he was supposed to meet me here." It's tempered by a bite on the lip and invisible hands grabbing hold of the intensity, controlling the volume with a sleight of hand comparable to the nimble fingers of a pianist.

He hates the moment of hesitation, the caesura of silence. He's not supposed to feel obliged to switch to past tense. _He is a friend, is a friend, still is a friend. Not "was", **is**._

"Any details you witnessed?"

He shivers under the cold lamplight, shaking off globules of rain like a mangled, homeless dog. "The car, it - " he takes a shuddering breath, one that racks his core and runs vibrations along his arm to his fingertips, "- it veered off to the side right there, and then it collided with that tree. That's all I saw."

The policeman nods and places a heavy hand onto the boy's fragile shoulder. The boy catches the shoulder with a limp hand. He's on the brink of collapsing into the canyon below; his hands are running on pure instinct alone. "Thank you for your cooperation."

The rest of the night is a blur, and so is Bokuto's normally sharp vision.

* * *

The gym doors are like giant walls blocking his path. Bokuto knows that one light touch would be enough to open them, but when did walls have doors?

"Are you going in?"

Bokuto can recognize Komi's concern, hidden below layers of strained patience. "Of course!" he says; a moment later he realizes how flat his voice has gone. He reaches forward to slide the metal slab open, and a slit of light materializes. Volleyballs are being handled - Bokuto can sense it - and the noises of callouts and encouragement mix in. When he steps into the gym, it is as if an off switch is flicked: everything sits in dead silence, faint shadows trailing escaping volleyballs as they roll off into a corner.

All of their eyes are saying the same thing, _"We're sorry."_ There is nothing to be sorry about.

Komi enters the wave of silence and breaks it, by bringing his hands together in a clap. It reverberates against the walls, and the shock that had frozen time melts. Sarukui picks up the volleyball, and Konoha glances down at his shoes before joining the others in a heated rush towards the equipment room.

A squeak pops out from behind him. The door is being slid open again, but by who? Everyone in the volleyball club is present already, even the managers and the two players scorekeeping.

And then there is a roiling grey cloud that masks Bokuto's eyes and mind, clouding and numbing his senses. Even the pain is now dull in his beating heart. White flashing behind his lids turn black with unfocused confusion.

Apparently, Bokuto has missed someone.

"Sorry I'm late."The man is leaning against the door, dark eyes possessing an otherwise ethereal glint to them. Or perhaps it was a trick of light, but Bokuto does not stop to ponder this. He's running forward, and he can't stop.

"Kuroo, he... Akaashi... I'm so," he sputters, while tears roll down his face. Akaashi feels each sob resonate against his chest as Bokuto grips him harder, choking the air out of him."Calm down, Bokuto-san," Akaashi says softly, stroking Bokuto's hair in an attempt to quiet the sobbing boy down. "It's not your fault." This is the first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto cry so unashamedly, in front of him and the others.

This is also the first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto.


	2. day two: promise

**A/N: As I post all the chapters here, a reminder that 7 chapters are on AO3 and my sideblog already. Thank you for reading c:**

He has tawny eyes that glows with vibrant gold, and dark streaks of hair amidst spikes of white: a fatal contradiction of interlocking yet overlapping hues. A corner of his mouth is laughing, as his arms force the air to snap and the ball to drive relentlessly into the ground, the latter sinking in to the wood from the impact. That power could form craters, becoming synonymous with the moon's dotted surface.

"Will it be okay?" a faint voice pipes up in the background. "Keiji is new to this."

The question is ignored, cast away into unreachable depths of forgotten information. "Bokuto Koutarou. He was quite the exuberant one, before the catastrophe. If he's hard to handle, you can come back and switch." The tone darkens, and so does the mask plastered on the man's face. "Remember the rules, Keiji."

The mask is a relative to the man's overbearing aura: the edges refined, the silky red patterns intricate, and the milky sheen of lacquer glorified the design, drawing focus and demanding attention. Known simply as the Head of the operation, and the name bestowed is suitable.

"I will. And no, it's fine." Akaashi bows, accepting the offer. "Thank you for the opportunity." And with a swish of his arm, he fades away into speckles of silver dust.

In that brief, fleeting moment, he'd avoided saying the four words tingling in the back of his head. They tangle his tongue like a spiderweb.

 _I won't regret this._

And he made himself a promise, a sickly sweet kiss on his lips and dripping down his throat. He will leave without a hint of regret to be shouldered, for if he allowed it to peek behind his carefully composed barrier, the guilt will seep between the cracks and loosen his driving will.

"Akaashi!" His charge is calling out to him, lashing strings tugging at his feet. A little glow of warmth is spreading across Bokuto's cheeks, and he is healthier than a day before, to Akaashi's relief. But Bokuto's consistency in voicing out his problems had Akaashi rushing to every beck and call, so much that he suddenly wants to finish this job and get reassigned as soon as possible.

At times, Bokuto's nagging wasn't even because of an issue. "Akaashi, look outside. Do you see that?"

Akaashi is pulling the string now, hoisting himself to where the string began. Maybe he will be disgusted at his easy compliance further down the path, but for now, he's doing what he can to keep the flame of his promise alive. "What is it, Bokuto-san."

Bokuto is whispering as he says, with hushed awe, "Is that an owl?"

The bird's intelligent eyes fix a knowing stare on Akaashi's face. Akaashi sighs. Perhaps it is in defeat, or perhaps it is for another reason that he's displaying this tired expression. Nevertheless, a moment later he feels the wetness cross his palm, and he flicks his pointer finger at the owl, when Bokuto's not looking: a subtle movement, but the bird understands, opening its mouth and emitting a single hoot.

Akaashi lets a half-smile slip out of his stoic face. _Might as well humor him_ , he thinks, casting a side glance at Bokuto's expression. _After all, it's nice to see Bokuto smile after all the crying he'd done yesterday._

The lights above cast shadows around the edges of doors; these shadows snake towards the volleyball cart, gliding down the sharp corners like a squirmy leech. Absolutely horrid. Akaashi flicks his attention away with some reluctance, he admits the mesmerizing qualities of shadows shifting stirs something in him; however, Akaashi's denial overpowers his desire to confess this realization.

Under the star-bright night blanketing the world, it's harder to distinguish between shadow and light, and Akaashi is grateful for this. Bokuto's slow shuffle across the sidewalk, a lumbering sleepiness, is worrisome, and the sight stabs into Akaashi's palm, just like earlier when he had allowed himself to cross the line, with the whole scene of communicating with the owl.

Owls could see far beyond their vantage point. Akaashi can not see as far into the future.

He holds his wounded palm behind his back, as Bokuto's wrist slips into his pockets, not wanting the faint shaking of hands to be seen.

Akaashi notices it anyways.


	3. day three: integration

His hands are large; they could hold up the world, cup the planets in a gentle cradle, and surround the pale wisps of stars on a clear night. Surprisingly so, and yet they are soft, calloused but softer than feathers.

"How did you scrape yourself," Bokuto says, a muffle of words as he tears a strip of gauze with his teeth. The ointment stings, a flash of pain, and Akaashi shifts on the bench, cringing.

Somewhere, an insect is buzzing; they all welcome the warmth of April as spring arrives dressed in flowing robes embroidered with sakura petals. Akaashi listens to the noise of wings rubbing, and does not say a word.

There is no reason to say anything. The cool touch of gauze bandage mingling with his burning skin says everything needed to be said.

Akaashi wonders still why he had done the things he did. Firstly, the owl incident, then, the dispelling of shadows from the volleyball cart. His lips twist in distaste at the recall, but it may have also been disgust at himself. Sure, shadows were nasty and he could not help the strong dislike towards them, but where light hits the scorching earth there must be shadow; it was law, the way of the world. Nature was odd, and that was it. No arguments could change that.

Using the forbidden technique was a mistake. And yet, Akaashi's denial, a heavy portion of his personality, is managing his guilt, wrangling it like how a snake's muscles clench and squeeze the very breath out of its victim. Denial will be his hubris, will be the catalyst to his downfall, but the warning signs lay silent.

The volleyball is a heavyweight against his bandaged palm. Akaashi learns quickly: after all, his job is to blend in with the environment and to meld into his role, so the toss should have been perfect. However, he is distracted by the dark lines running along Bokuto's shock of hair as he jumps, long knee stockings and all. It reminds him way too much of shadows, and shadows remind him of the pain coursing through his injury.

"Nice, Akaashi!" Bokuto yells. His eyes sparkle, and they are made of starlight.

Akaashi stumbles weakly into a high-five. He doesn't need compliments when that last toss was clearly a few degrees away from the intended hitting point. He turns his self-disappointment inwards, and radiates a false sense of pride. His accustomed "thank you" hangs on his tongue, and the forced politeness pinches the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you," he mumbles. The only thing that comes across clear is the hurried "Bokuto-san" added later on.

The team take a well-needed rest. By now, Akaashi knows all of their names; it's not so difficult when the information you are supposed to know is presented to you the moment you dare to look at their eyes. He's seen many pairs of eyes during this short period of two days, ranging from misty blue to warm amber, and the light draws him in. If anything is to be said, the phrase "eyes are the windows to the soul" rings true in Akaashi's logic.

Bokuto gulps down a swig of water, and the liquid slides down his chin. He wipes the excess liquid off with a hasty swipe of his sleeve. "Does it still hurt, Akaashi?"

The question catches Akaashi by surprise. _Hurt_ , it echoes; each echo weaves between the messy layout of overlapping strips and stabs at the flesh lying underneath. _Hurt, it hurts, it really hurts._

And, _"Remember the rules, Keiji."_

The word is a lead sphere, and it pops out of Akaashi's mouth easily. So easily, it is like second nature, and it is full of inadvertent defiance.

"No."

The lies may catch up to him someday. He doesn't tarry to wait.


	4. day four: artificial existence

The ball is coming towards him, but Akaashi can't move.

His arms are a half of a puzzle piece, interlocked; it doesn't budge when he tries. Every waking second passes by in slow motion, and it feels as if he's wallowing in mud.

"Akaashi!"

The voices crowding him snap his muscles back into motion. It's a clean arc, and the ball lands neatly on his fingers this time around. Akaashi has made a mistake last time, but he will not repeat it.

Bokuto catches his eye, and in one single, spine-snapping movement, he throws his arm forward, hitting with as much force as possible, to a nearly impossible angle. If you didn't know Bokuto Koutarou, that would've been out of this world; however, he's fairly accustomed to cross spikes, even one so inward bound.

"Did ya see that, Akaashi?" Bokuto shouts, waiting for praise. So contrary to the falter a blink before.

Yes, Akaashi had noticed, he has always. He's noticed how Bokuto's hands shake at night; he's noticed when the pitter-patter of rain sends quivers along Bokuto's arms. He'd noticed the faint hesitation before that last spike. He's noticed everything, and has done nothing of importance.

"It was... impressive," he says carefully, choosing his words as if treading between land mines. Afraid that one wrong word choice, one misplacement, could set off a reaction, would blast his leg off.

He's becoming increasingly aware of his decisions, but it might be too late to start.

The bench is holding him up as Akaashi unwraps the tightly-bound bandages, examining the damage beneath. The wounds have healed by now, as he'd expected - what he doesn't expect is the lingering pain, and the waning redness tingeing the skin. And then every noise outside is cancelled out, as a spasmodic tingling spreads from his arm to his hand without warning. It is like bare feet on live coals, and it _hurts_.

"Akaashi." His charge is calling. Akaashi does not reach towards the circle of light, and stays in the fuzzy haze below. He can't think properly, and a smudge of black swims in his vision, like koi fish in a rain-pelted pond.

"Akaashi!"

Static sparks in his ears. Lines of red shoot from his palm to the ceiling above; they are red strings of fate connecting in all the wrong places, pockmarking the plaster and splaying out into a canopy of hanging webs.

He licks the dryness with his tongue. "Home," the voice whispers, he whispers. He doesn't have a home, but he says it anyways.

"I want to go home."

The day drags on, and before he knows, it is dusk. Shadows dance across the lights strung across a row of trees, and Akaashi wonders how he got here.

"Bokuto-san, where are you taking me?"

The insistent tugging on his sleeve stops as Bokuto meets his tired gaze with one beaming with life, but not without a trace of concern. "My house."

"And... why?" Akaashi does not want to accompany his charge this far; he wants to rest, to sleep away his troubles.

"You said you wanted to see it? Hang on," Bokuto examines the bags under Akaashi's eyes, "did you forget?"

He must've, because Akaashi has no recollection of ever agreeing. Bokuto's breathing sends puffs of condensation into the air. It is the bite of coldness that wakes Akaashi up from his reverie, and his mind clears the buildup of fog.

He had, in his sluggish state, stated he'd "wanted to go home". An impossible request; when did he ever have a home to go back to? He's always slept in the Aokigahara forest during the three nights he's been here, taking the risk that civilians wouldn't dare to step within the cursed boundaries at late hours, and also hoping he was strong enough to repel evil spirits by himself. Forests were a common place for vengeful spirits to brood, and Aokigahara is like no other.

And Bokuto had listened to the request, interpreting it in a way only Bokuto could, with so little information on Akaashi's actual background.

 _Why are you being so kind to me when I myself barely know you?_ he wants to ask, but the answer pops up a second later. Akaashi takes this chance, this silence, to look at Bokuto's face clearly. Because to Bokuto, he's always known Akaashi. Akaashi is only basing his knowledge on what he's supposed to know. He does not know Bokuto personally, even as he knows everything there is to know about his charge. How his favourite food is yakiniku. How his birthday is September 20, during the cool autumn months. How and when his ups and downs would affect the team. It's almost a paradox, and he himself is a paradox, an existence without meaning.

The house is modest, but it's warm, and does emanate a feeling of home. The warmth washes over his fragile shoulders, a mix between hot chocolate, caramel, and the smell of old wood. Akaashi wraps it like a blanket, and savors the strength it gives him.

"You've never been here, have you, Akaashi?" Bokuto gives him a slight push. "Akaashi, go and explore! I would be a tour guide, but I'm gonna go and boil some water or something, to make tea with."

 _Do you even know how to make tea?_ Akaashi thinks. He does not budge.

"Aww, c'mon, Akaashi! Is it because my house isn't as grand as you expected?" Bokuto twiddles his fingers.

Did he really think that was it? It's because Akaashi's tired, and it's not very polite of him to stay in his charge's house for the night.

"Alright, I'll go, I'll go." The defeat pushes into his back, and he stumbles off into the hallway, walking into a dark room. He flicks the lights on, and he just wants to flop down onto the bed and shut his eyes.

Which wouldn't be courteous, as this was his charge's room.

Akaashi groans, yet another defeat into the neverending pile. Something squishy is under his foot, and he lets out a noise of disgust. The room is messy, books tumbling everywhere, papers tucked in between the TV and the TV stand. The familiar shape of a volleyball tips over and falls onto the littered ground.

A book lies on the desk, and Akaashi realizes, with a spark of interest, that it's a diary. With a resolute (and wary) step and a surreptitious glance behind his shoulder, Akaashi slips the diary into his hands, and splits the pages in the middle.

Something catches his eye and his breath.

It doesn't look like him, the man standing beside an enthusiastic Bokuto, a hint of a smile tugging his lips. The air looks humid, and there are specks of insects in the background. Clouds dot the blue sky, floating lazily and without a care for the world.

Akaashi reads the caption in sudden captivation. His grip on the edges of the book forms creases on the page. Bokuto's handwriting is bold, strong just like his character, written in confident strokes.

 _August 20; Me and Akaashi at the summer training camp! But Kuroo photobombs this shot ; _ ;_

His fingers smudge the photo, across his face, wanting to wipe it out of the picture.

Akaashi had not been there when the photo was taken. As an envoy he'd successfully blended in, filled the hole of plot. To Bokuto, he's always been Akaashi Keiji, second year at Fukurodani Gakuen, and the setter of the volleyball club. To himself, Akaashi knows the ugly truth: he's just an artificial conscience, pulling Bokuto towards the right path while trying not to lose himself in the process.

He flips the book, turning it sideways, looking at the content from different angles. Kuroo Tetsurou is in many of the entries, and the more he reads, the better he understands.

 _December 25; CHRISTMAS! The volleyball club might be doing something special this year for this holiday! I'm so excited!_

A hasty script, and the black ink stains the paper until the drops of periods ending sentences have holes in them.

 _January 03; It's cold and snowing • ^ • I hope Kuroo is doing fine, I don't think he likes the cold..._

Akaashi flips the pages, coming up to the more recent entries. In his haste he forgets the dread and sense of foreboding.

 _March 28; Meeting Kuroo at the nearby convenience store! We're going to buy some goodies at Harajuku. I only see Kuroo during summer outings with the vb club so it's nice to see him again._

And the latest entry, ink smeared with remnants of tears:

 _March 29; He's gone._

Something burns in his chest, but Akaashi shakes it off. His feelings are fake, just like he is.


	5. day five: stars

On the porch, the array of stars burning its place in the obsidian sky is a view easily seen. Akaashi is used to the tent of trees masking this gorgeous sight, hiding it away from his reach. Today, his fingers touch drops of gold, dipping wrists in pools of deep velvet.

"Have you never seen the stars, Akaashi?" There is no trace of malice in his voice, just a warmhearted curiosity.

Akaashi lowers his outstretched hand.

So Bokuto _could_ make tea. The tray nearly tips over, and Akaashi's hand reacts before the cups were sent into a shattered doom. "Careful," he says, while Bokuto apologizes profusely.

Akaashi wraps his good hand over the steaming cup, skin absorbing the heat through the porcelain. "I have. It's just that the sky is so clear tonight..." It's like infinite possibilities splayed across the heavens, each star containing a wish waiting to be granted.

"Does the injury still hurt?"

Akaashi stares at the bandages, knowing underneath, the burn had fully healed. "No, not anymore. Thank you for the concern."

He leans further down on the wall, drinking the rich sight in. His hands begin to shake, and soon the liquid is sloshing around the rim of the cup. Quickly, Akaashi snaps his head in a ninety-degree turn, but he's in luck; Bokuto is busy with his own cup of tea to detect it. In relief, he brings the cup up to his lips and takes a cautious sip. The liquid is hot on his tongue, but not to the point it could melt your mouth off. He notes the mild bitterness, tasting of antique brass and salted pineapple, before astonishing sweetness rushes past his palate.

"How much sugar did you add to this?" he chokes; he wants to rub a fistful of grass across his tongue to cancel the searing saccharinity.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry, Akaashi - here, I'm going to get some water." A hurried dash, and he's gone.

Akaashi waits for his return.

There is an upturned pot spilling soil into the cracks, and Akaashi lifts it back upright. Under the sliver of moonlight it's hard to tell what sort of flower it was, but its overlapping ridges gave away its identity as carnations. Above the pot where the striped carnations grew idyllically, a wind chime hangs, patiently waiting for just the right breeze to pick the metal tubes up and rustle a melody. The wind chime twirls, catching the moonlight, and the melody is haunting, down to the pit of Akaashi's stomach.

A foot sticks out of the doorway, and a glass floats in front of him. "Here, have this."

The stinging sweetness has left him for a while now, but Akaashi accepts it with gratefulness. "Thank you," he mumbles, and downs the contents in a few gulps.

"Ah!" Bokuto shouts, and it causes Akaashi to jolt to a sitting position.

"What is it?"

Bokuto points to something shining in the distance. "Fireflies."

 _Fireflies don't appear until summer,_ Akaashi wants to retort, but indeed, they are fireflies, twinkling light bulbs drifting lazily in the air.

"You know," Bokuto says, voice streaked with wonder, nostalgia, and a hint of grief? Akaashi can't describe the quality with mere words. "My grandmother used to call them fairy lights. Each one is carrying a wish, delivering it to somewhere we don't know of, maybe in our dreams. And they drop the wish into a leaf, like a dewdrop, and it gets granted by a benevolent spirit!"

"That's... lovely," Akaashi struggles to say. In reality, fairy lights were deadly creatures that stuck to you and bite their razor-sharp teeth into your flesh when one was unaware.

"I think there's a word for it. What was it, will-something-or-other?"

Will 'o the wisps led countless sleep-deprived travelers astray, into the belly of the forest, where, if lucky, they would be found in the morning with a few minor cuts and scrapes. Akaashi doesn't think that description fits the meek firefly. "I've no idea." He vaguely hopes they aren't hitodama, lost souls detached from their material bodies, even as they are essentially harmless.

"Oh well." Bokuto sighs, shooting his sights somewhere beyond the cloudless sky. Akaashi follows Bokuto's gaze up into the stars. Akaashi has no idea his charge could be so... quiet, at times. The copious shouts and bellows Akaashi had to deal with in the gym is gone now, fading into a hazy silence.

The hazy silence is uncomfortable.

"What time is it," Akaashi says wearily, and the instant regret dives in. For some strange, inexplicable reason, he doesn't want this to end, this tranquility dotted with the timid glow of fireflies.

"Ack, I lost track of time! It's almost midnight."

"That's fine," Akaashi says, and steps up to one knee. "I'll be leaving now, if you don't mind. Thank you for the tea." His hand rests on the handle of the door.

"Are you okay?"

A strained silence hangs between them, and Akaashi takes one look at his charge to know that the only path available to him is to lie. "My family is expecting me. Goodnight, Bokuto-san, if you will excuse me." He slides the netted door open, slips back into the heat, and out again into the darkness and frigidity of the night.

Since when did "goodnight" feel like a goodbye?

* * *

Car headlights send streaks of red and yellow on the streets, and a wind tickling Akaashi's neck. The streets are devoid of activity, and besides the car's breath the only sound Akaashi can hear is his own heart beating across his chest, a peal of a steady drum in his ears.

There is a welcome glow lighting up a small dingy restaurant beside him, and the voices, yelling and bickering and laughter, floats on over, along with the mouthwatering smell of food cooking. Akaashi shuts them out, and continues walking up the steep road.

"Heya, there! Have the shadows gotten to you yet?"

Akaashi nearly jumps out of his skin. He pretends to ignore the voice; hopefully it'll leave his tail soon.

"Hello? I know you can hear me!"

A flap of wings, and it's distinct and large enough for Akaashi to recognize.

His hair is slicked back, and his robes sway with the wind cast by the swift landing. The robes itself is exquisite, threaded with the most careful of fingers. A ribbon of silk ties the masterpiece to his waist.

Akaashi cannot let the stranger see the damage he has done to his hand. So he tucks his misdeed into the pocket of his jeans, and faces the newcomer.

The streak of bleached hair sticks out too much in the black. Akaashi dips his head into a bow. "It's such an honor and a privilege to meet you, Nishinoya-san."

Nishinoya laughs it off. It's a light laugh, one riding on a river of luck, wishes and dreams, no burden of rocks to halt the path, no resistance to crack his voice. "You don't have to be so polite around me, Keiji! I'm just a fellow envoy."

 _An understatement,_ Akaashi thinks. Nishinoya-san has served more charges than enumerable, and had left each one with a more than satisfactory job done. The famous guardian deity, known across several branches, and here he is, right in front of him.

"You want privacy? I'll give it to ya. Here, follow me," Nishinoya extends his wings, and Akaashi's breath catches in his throat. It is shimmering gold leaf tipping the feathers, copper dust outlining each plume.

Nishinoya glances back at Akaashi, who is unmoving, still in awe. "Oh, I'm sorry! You don't have to keep your illusion up in front of me!

That isn't exactly the reason, but Akaashi is grateful for Nishinoya-san to address this problem. "I was taught to keep the illusion on in front of higher-ranks..."

"Pfft. That's an absurd rule. No need to be courteous around me." Nishinoya extends a hand, and Akaashi accepts it after a brief hesitant breath. Akaashi's wings unfurl before he can tell himself not to, pearl white stained with smoke, and the paper mask, thin and flitting with the wind, obstructs his eyes the second the glamour lifts.

"Whoa, those on your head, are they - "

"Yes, they are," Akaashi completes the sentence, and a sudden probing guilt attacks his chest. He didn't mean to cut off Nishinoya-san's question. "I'm sorry for being rude," he amends, even as the damage's been done.

They stick out of his head, ugly protrusions used for sensing direction and stability during flight. Deers have it so much better; theirs were elegant crowns worn proudly upon their heads.

"No worries. They're beautiful. I wish I had them."

That must've been a lie, but Nishinoya-san seems honest.

They approach an onsen, hidden within a shroud of dense forest. Nishinoya-san is light on his feet, and they tap the granite stones with such daintiness, he could've taken ballet. The faint scent of sulphur wafts over, and Akaashi wrinkles his nose at it.

Nishinoya sits at the foot of a lodge, the eaves casting dramatic shadows across his face. Akaashi sweeps his yukata and crosses his legs. It's a summer garment, he knows, and yet he cannot help but compare the plain woven pattern to Nishinoya's otherworldly design on his kimono. The gods above must have touched the fabric with blessings, and the lines, red as rubies, painted with their blood.

"What brings you here, Nishinoya-san."

"Drop the honorific, will you? Just call me Yuu."

Akaashi can't.

Nishinoya heaves a breath before continuing. The tirade is long and oversaturated with verbiage. "It has dawned on me that I have not sent a messenger to check on our newest envoy, Akaashi Keiji, so if you will please head on over and inspect his progress, esteemed Nishinoya Yuu, something something something. Sorry, my memorization is in bad shape."

Akaashi's shoulders fold into his chest, a flower wilting in the last breadths of summer. Did he accomplish anything significant over the past few days? He hears Bokuto's voice in his mind, a trace of unmistakable sadness apparent, and for the first time today Akaashi is frightened.

"I... I don't think I'm doing so well," he whispers, showing his brutally honest side for just a moment.

Nishinoya chuckles. "You're honest, I like that! Don't worry, my first experience had me in tears of anxiety! Plus, I got into a fight with my charge. Not good for my record."

The question nags at him, and Akaashi opens his mouth. "What was your experience with your first charge like? If you don't mind."

Nishinoya's face brightens in the dim lighting of the lodge. "Ah! Asahi-san! Those days bring such nostalgia," he says, sweeping his arm into an exaggerated gesture of wiping a stray, nonexistent tear from his eye. There is a sort of ache in his voice, however.

"Well, his dog died, you see. And I was sent in to accompany him. He told me all his troubles, how he used to take that dog out for walks, how his dog would wag its tail happily when Asahi-san arrived back home, even his troubles at school, such as how he was mistaken as an age older than he actually was." Nishinoya paused, and let the story simmer for a while before continuing. "Mind you, he did look like an adult. Asahi-san wanted to appear 'wild' and 'mildly fierce', as he put it. Don't know why, still don't know why."

"And you left him when his heart had healed enough?"

"In this case, yes. Asahi-san did love his dog very much, but he had to move on."

 _Move on._ Akaashi would've thought that a good thing back then.

But his feet are rooting themselves into the rich loam, tied by tangles of tree roots and the insistent string the Fukurodani volleyball club had looped around his waist, and it's hard to break free. If wishes were stars, his would be a white dwarf, dead and desolate, a nuisance in the sky, left ungranted.

When Nishinoya-san leaves, it is morning. The stars have disappeared by then.

* * *

 **A/N:** _In chapter 149 of the Haikyuu! manga, Asahi mentions that he sometimes "wakes up in tears sometimes... like when I dream about the dog I had as a kid". I did tweak Asahi's age a bit in this story, but that's where it comes from._


	6. day six: another promise

"You're imagining it."

"Am not. I swear."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Akaashi waves the notion away with a flick of the hand. _Trust me._ Vengeful spirits is all you get from the dead, Akaashi can testify from experience. Then again, he has no idea if all the dead were hidden amongst the material world as spectres, because that would cause great strain for him if he'd ever come across them. Akaashi isn't powerful enough to defend himself against that sort of monstrosity.

Why he'd decided to make Aokigahara his temporary home, he doesn't know himself. It is as if an innate force pulls him towards the accursed forest every midnight.

Bokuto frowns, wrinkles creasing his forehead. His voice is distant, a subdued whimper, and if Akaashi isn't imagining it, strained with slivers of hope. "But wouldn't that be nice, Akaashi."

Akaashi shrugs. "I don't know, Bokuto-san." And in truth, he doesn't know, since he's only an envoy and not a living, breathing person with close connections to others of their kind.

Spring is still making its slow transition from winter, and nights did not lessen their brutal hold, a cold grip on anything glowing with life. Akaashi coughs, and the warm air is converted into little whiffs of smoke. The healed spot on his palm itches with a growing nagging; it's difficult to resist the urge to scratch it.

"Imagine though." By now, the whimsical quality has vanished, replaced with a blithe, spirited tone. "What if, say, you had a fish. And it comes back - as a ghost, you see - at night while you're sleeping? It'll be swimming in the air, right? Wouldn't that be cool?"

Akaashi chuckles behind his hand at this strange but fanciful idea. "I suppose so."

"Hey Akaashi. Do you ever smile?"

The laugh melts away. "Hmm?"

"You just laughed, but I didn't see it. I've never seen you smile, Akaashi."

Akaashi would have wanted to insert a comical joke just then, but his mind is blank, devoid of witticisms. He isn't Kuroo Tetsurou, and he is failing to act like him, as well.

"What is there to smile about." It comes out lifeless and flat, dripping with latent sarcasm, and there's a visible cringe, a tightening of muscles, from the third year in synchronous stride beside him.

Bokuto sniffs, jutting out a disappointed lip. "You're too pessimistic."

"Maybe I am." _Why did I say that? That's not going to help Bokuto in any way!_

The footsteps slow in a gradual, awkward manner. "There's a lot to be happy about. Like times spent with friends - "

He doesn't have any friends.

"- eating your favourite food -"

Akaashi has to admit having a charge gave him the benefit of being able to taste a variety of delicacies.

"- and when you accomplish a goal you've always wanted to achieve! Don't tell me you've never had that feeling before, hey, Akaashi?"

A blur whisks past his torso, and Akaashi's blood freezes, along with his mindful watch at his surroundings. The squint he gives the slug-like ayakashi blurs the streetlight in the corners of his eye and reduces it to dotted highlights.

"Akaashi?"

There is an indifferent crackle in his voice, and he tries to chase it away. "I've... I've never had that feeling before, to be honest." His left hand tingles, and it is as if bandages were wrapped around it still, and the pain that followed. Wavering fingers and the silent chokehold of _should I? should I not?_ enclosing his neck, Akaashi staunches the desire to break rules once again, by squeezing his own hand roughly and with a mental fortitude stronger than the pounding hooves of a warhorse.

"Constrict," he whispers, focusing every speck of internal energy towards the shadow sitting primly on Bokuto's shoulder. Leaves begin to sway and detach themselves, dancing at his feet - Bokuto-san's neverending tirade goes on -

"Aw man, but that feeling is the best! It's like a fire burning in your lungs, all spicy and hot like chili peppers. Oh! Like that curry rice I had yesterday!"

The ayakashi twists itself in the middle, bound by the incantation.

Akaashi casually loops his hands behind his back, keeping a stray eye on a lecturing Bokuto. "Retrieve." A shock of light licks his arm, and each particle solidifies until his grip closes around cool metal and delicate silk. The steel glints against the dim lighting, and the curved tip is sharp, as if it had been born newly from the forge. A slender sword, light in his palm, and he readjusts its position so the fit is comfortable.

"Oh man, that rice was delicious! My mom's cooking is the best, you should come over during dinner hours sometime, Akaashi."

Akaashi slashes at the finicky ayakashi, careful not to slice off Bokuto's hair. "I'll pass on that, Bokuto-san." The shadow moves like liquid, splashing on the concrete sidewalk in a partial defeat, beady red eyes burning with belligerence and goading.

"Hey, do you hear something? Like a whoosh sound, except it's not as loud as a volleyball would make." Akaashi whips the sword around his back, hiding it from sight. Bokuto's eyes trail down the bent crook of Akaashi's arm, and up to his sweaty face.

"I don't know what you mean," says Akaashi, the lie spilling between gaps in his clenched teeth. Salty perspiration leaks from his pores to touch his upper lip, and he swipes the moisture away with a sleeve. Not with the sword in hold, mind you.

Bokuto's shoulders hunch in a dismissive shrug, and he turns his gaze back straight. The point of the sword sneaks back in. "Just go away, will you," Akaashi breathes, and lowers his torso to the ground in an attempt to reach the ayakashi. The vehement blade digs its thin edge into the shadow, and the ayakashi mewls as it dissipates, shrinking back into the shadows.

Good riddance. "Withdraw." His hand is left with a curious emptiness as the sword disappears, and his muscles ache with sporadic, numb spasms of dull pain. His breathing is coarse, and the energy he had going in him has all but depleted.

He tries to keep his light-headedness in check, to prevent his charge from seeing what a weary state he is in after using his katana. "Actually, it'll be nice to have a taste of your mom's cooking," he says coolly, and a brief smile plays on his lips at the sight of Bokuto's immediate reaction.

"Really, Akaashi? Then maybe this week sometime! How about it? How about it?"

 _What would Kuroo say?_ Akaashi ponders.

 _What would **I** say?_

Akaashi's bewildered by his own question. On one hand, he doesn't want to go to Bokuto's house again, but on the other hand, Bokuto has kindly invited him, and it would be impolite to refuse.

"Why not." By the looks of it, Bokuto's mental state had improved, and Akaashi would give anything to increase it.

Even if it meant having to witness and take part in the social construct known as a family.


	7. day seven: somewhere he belongs

It's raining again.

Akaashi tucks a few strands of stray hair into his jacket. From his shoulderbag, he searches for an umbrella, and unfurls it. The raindrops tap the cheap plastic covering in a pattern of long and short taps, almost like Morse code.

And he sees it then.

It's small. Caught between the trees lining the street and the garbage can, it pats its tiny paws across several puddles, and drops spray out. It shivers, and water continues to stick on its coat, glistening jewels bedecking its charcoal fur.

Somewhere across the world, there will be people, people with superstitious beliefs that would say a black cat crossing one's path is the harbinger of bad luck. Akaashi isn't one of these people, however, and he stoops down to get a closer look.

The cat's eyes glow with intelligence and cunning, but it does not scratch Akaashi's nose as it approaches with an insatiable curiosity, tempered by meekness.

"You understand, don't you," Akaashi says, stroking the wet fur. The cat emits a rumble of pleasure under the gentle touch. "How it feels to not have a home."

An idea forms in his head, and he reaches into his bag again, this time to retrieve his scarf. He wraps the little thing with the fabric, all warm and cozy, and surprisingly, the feline doesn't mind, only giving a small yawn in response.

The bundle is no longer wet when Akaashi reaches Bokuto's house. Carefully, he unwraps the kitten from the folds of the scarf, laying the animal onto the doorstep, and knocks. How many times has he been here? It's probably not a good idea to visit his charge so many times, and Akaashi decides, the dinner he agreed to would be his last.

He leaves without the faintest sound, but sticks around just long enough to feel Bokuto's happiness radiate even from afar.

:::

The forest floor sinks as his feet travel over the decay of leaves. It's uneven, and hard to trudge through. The branches hovering above refuse to let in any light as green leaves bud on the tree's bare arms, renewed by the spell of spring.

"Welcome home," Akaashi whispers to himself, as he crosses his legs into a sitting position, under his favourite tree: one not so twisted and gnarly as the others. Who in the right mind would dare to live the night here, Akaashi doesn't know, but he can't really argue, because then he'd be defying his own logic.

Maybe because there is some enticing yet horrific quality drawing him in, maybe it's because of how the forest sucks all external sound into its bowels of knobbly trees and undergrowth. The forest is a halcyon during the day, but at night, rumors of paranormal activity would rouse Akaashi from his sleep.

At night, he keeps his illusion up, blending into shadows like a chameleon. He's been woken up to footsteps and hushed voices before, and it keeps him on edge: he's unusually tired and graced with bags under his eyes in the morning.

He has yet to run into any youkai, and he'd like to keep it that way.

It's really a pity. A forest should not be associated with dark omens, aren't forests the epitome of life?

His vision darkens as his lids cover his view.

A scream echoes, rebounding off tree trunks, and Akaashi springs awake. His hands instinctively reach for the small of his back, and his illusion dissipates like ice on a warm day.

His legs are moving by themselves, plunging into the darkness, the shroud of forest whipping past him in a dark green blur. He is blinded by the lack of light, but he manages to navigate through the thick shadow until he finds the source of the scream. The instant he approaches the man, the very first thing he sees is winking lights drifting in a patch at the foot of a stunted tree. At first, Akaashi assumes they are fairy lights, or will 'o the wisps, and that gives him a rough idea of why the man had screamed. But upon closer inspection, Akaashi casts the thought away. _Fireflies._

"Excuse me," Akaashi says, tapping the man on the shoulder. "Are you okay?"

The man flinches, the opposite effect of what Akaashi wants to establish, and his clasped hands detangle themselves in fright. "I'm sorry if I scared you!" Akaashi says, in his most soothing voice he can deliver. The man gulps, and nods, his glasses slipping down as he does this.

"Don't worry, I'm okay." The man pushes his glasses back up, and wipes his forehead. "Thanks for the concern. I'd better be off now."

"It's so late. Why are you here, anyways?" Aokigahara is a tourist attraction, but not so much during midnight.

The man affixes a blank stare on Akaashi, and it is this instant that Akaashi suddenly does not feel safe anymore. A sense of foreboding hammers on his chest, and he's winded, paralyzed at the prospect, at the danger in front of him.

Aren't fireflies supposed to symbolize hope and guidance?

The fireflies begin to swarm, ribbons looping around the man's waist. The man's eyes glint, and with a shock Akaashi realizes they are hollow, save for a flicker of light resembling one lone firefly acting as a pupil. And a sheaf of paper shields his eyes, much like Akaashi's own, except with a single word inscribed onto the textured paper:

蛍 _Hotaru_

 _Hitodama,_ souls separated from their body, taking the form of glowing orbs with tails. Fireflies, representing the souls of the soldiers who have sacrificed their life during the war. Akaashi has never put his belief in superstition, but now he wholeheartedly agrees with these representations.

A youkai baited on revenge, or seeking for help. And now he is going to take that revenge on Akaashi.

Akaashi forces every bit of illusion to disappear. He stretches out his wings to their full span, and it causes dust to plume into the dank air. "Retrieve," he shouts; the sword gleams in his hand, and he faces his opponent with grit teeth.

The first advance is done by the youkai himself. He swoops in with the full intent of injuring, a long staff hidden in his robe's sleeves, and Akaashi sidesteps, sending his katana forward. The blade misses by an inch of space; that youkai had guessed where he would strike.

A wooden stick, versus a gilded sword. Akaashi almost laughs at the notion, but he is quick to doubt his own mediocre skills. His opponent is smart. Akaashi will have to be even smarter in order to deal any damage.

He twists to his right and aims for the leg. The hustle shoots leaves up, along with age-old grime, and Akaashi tastes unappealing dirt in his mouth. The youkai jumps up as the blade swishes past in an arc.

"Would you stay still, Hotaru," Akaashi spits out, when the youkai attacks with the staff, its tip engaged and shooting towards Akaashi at a lightning-fast speed. Akaashi deflects the blow with a parry, but he can feel his muscles strain as he pushes the potentially eye-stabbing or back-whacking stick away from the vicinity of his solar plexus.

Akaashi switches the blade so that the edge would cut into the staff. The katana slips against the rotting wood, not before slicing off a good chunk of it.

With one swift motion, the youkai's foot kicks the blade on its flat side, and the blade's grip is loosened. Due to the sweat lining his palm, the sword flies out of his grasp, gyrating and flipping over as it climbs up altitude and falls. Akaashi stumbles backwards, tripping over a tree root, his fists catching his fall, clenched as Akaashi lands amongst the hellish pit of defeat. The sword stabs neatly into the dirt, between plates of rock.

Fear seizes his heart, a shawl clouding his vision, a rabid dog clawing his face into disproportion. Akaashi is regretting the decision of ever coming to this forest; he should've stayed at school, in the gym, where it is warm with comfort and of familiar people. The staff is dangerously close to the space between Akaashi's eyes.

Akaashi knows a simple "Constrict" would not hold off someone of such high level. He isn't thinking when he strokes the marking on his left hand, does not feel the liquid, either blood or shadow, leak into tributaries on his skin. _Condemn_ , it says, and he flicks the shadow-stained hand at the youkai. The youkai lets out a screech of pain, dropping the staff with a dull thud as his arms fell limp to his sides, bound tight with silver rope to his side.

Akaashi ignores the burning sensation and speaks slowly and clearly, forcing his fear down his throat. "I suggest you don't struggle, Hotaru." He picks up a rock, glittering with remnants of iron, and handles it as if it were a baseball, up and down, up and down. "Would you like to be sealed in this rock? Or would you rather that tree over there?"

The youkai speaks, and it is derogative and slick with distaste.

"Kei."

"Wh..what?" Akaashi squeaks, and it is then he realizes just how afraid his voice has become. He doesn't mean to let his fear show.

"Not 'hotaru'." The youkai points to the kanji with a shivering finger, hands still clasped to his sides. "Kei."

"I don't think I understand." Hotaru means firefly, while "Kei", although sharing the same kanji, is a given name to males. _Does this youkai actually have a name? Was he originally a human?_

And then, _does he still think he's a human?_

"Acquit," Akaashi says, and the silver rope fades away. This one marking is easy to reverse, much to Akaashi's relief. The youkai shakes off soreness from his limbs, and coughs.

"Well, that was a fun experience." The youkai grunts. "Definitely don't want it to happen again."

Akaashi stares with wide eyes at the revelation. The youkai has since abandoned his look, reverting to the bookish man with glasses, although the staff is still present, a lingering hazard.

"So," the youkai - or man, rather - smirks, "you though I was a spirit bent on revenge or what?"

"What else would you be. And why did you scream, if it weren't to act as a trap?"

Kei crosses his arms, the staff folded across the length of his limbs. "I'm guarding this section of the forest. I work here. And I thought I saw a _bakeneko_. A _nekomata_ , no less, split tail and all. "

 _You're a youkai yourself_ , Akaashi wants to bicker, but he keeps himself silent in restraint. The youkai probably knows this, and is just denying the fact out of fear, or some other strong negative emotion. Perhaps he is a lost spirit, aimlessly wandering the forest.

"I apologize for attacking you, by the way. I thought you were just another trespasser. This section is off limits, you know. See the paper strips tied on the ropes hanging in between the trees? I marked off this place with them. It's a sacred site."

"I'm sorry for trying to seal you, too. And aren't _shimenawa_ only tied around shrines? There aren't any here."

Kei flips his staff with expert finger control. "It's used to ward off vengeful spirits, unlike me. And to keep people from disturbing tree spirits residing here. But," Kei's voice hardens, "that doesn't keep people from stumbling into this region." He blinks, as if finally seeing Akaashi properly for the first time. "Who are you, anyways?"

Akaashi took the chance to test the spirit."What if I said I was a youkai?"

"Other youkai have a hard time passing an enclosed region, so I don't believe that." A haughty air, and matter-of-factly, and it unnerves Akaashi, to an extent. "But I suppose you could be easily mistaken for one," he remarks, pointing at the silhouette surrounding Akaashi's wings, and the white, kanji-less linen.

Akaashi sighs, dusting his palms as he stands up. "I'm an envoy."

"Never heard of it."

"We act as fill-ins to the living who need support."

"Ah. Those guys." Kei's eyes narrow. "They like to trespass, that's for sure."

"I can apologize for them, if you want."

"Don't sweat it." Kei waves the offer away. "I'd just like it if they keep to their own spaces and stop bothering me."

Akaashi feels the hilt of the sword as he reaches to pick it up, and whispers a subdued "Withdraw". "I'll tell that to the rest when my current job is done."

"That would be most appreciated. Speaking of which, I've never seen any of you envoys actually try to seal me up. You're the first."

"Such an honor." Which reminded Akaashi once again that he had used the forbidden technique, and this time, it is a stronger marking, which would lead to extreme discomfort far worse than last time. He mildly curses himself mentally. It was all for nothing in the end, as Kei isn't particularly a threat anymore.

"Something tells me that you should've have done that," Kei deadpans, and Akaashi is struck with yet another spear of dread. Does this youkai know of his misdeeds? How did Kei find out? "It looks painful, the burn."

The charred skin is indeed very painful, but only at certain times at certain intervals. So the youkai was simply stating the facts presented to him. Akaashi breathes a sigh of relief, releasing a baited breath.

"If you don't mind, I'll be leaving now," Akaashi says, heading back the way he'd come. His eyes has since adjusted to the near-black woods, and he can see slivers of moonlight filter in from the forest canopy, dappling the garish ground.

"Certainly." Kei's voice grows quieter with each step Akaashi took.

"By the way," Akaashi comments, turning his head around to face the ever-shrinking figure, "you seem to be on edge around other youkai. Why don't you go live somewhere else? Like near a shrine, or something, since you're not a malevolent one."

The faint silhouette shrugs. "This is my home, and I don't think I can leave it now. Plus, I have a job to do."

Akaashi nods in understanding. "Fair enough. Goodnight."

Those words strangely mirrors his own doubting self. Has he started to consider his current situation his "home"?

His impatient thoughts surround him through the night, and he barely sleeps a wink.


	8. day: just like this

Morning wafts into the forest, a scarlet and citrus sky reigning above. Dewdrops line every leaf, every brush of foliage, and they twinkle as sunlight hits them, each a star of their own.It is in this heavenly glow where Akaashi blinks open sleep-crusted eyes. And stares at his fading fingers in horror.His hand is like glass, transparent and fragile, and wrapped around his frost-like skin are long strands of syrup, slick with crimson. A strangled noise tears at his throat, and he buckles over, holding his neck. _They're coming for me._

:::

Markings. Foreign symbols holding a key to a cache of energy and restrained power. A technique easily demonstrated and performed with your dominant hand, your inking tool, which swipes the symbol into the receiving palm of your free hand. Simple, advantageous, and can bite you in the back without notice.

Many of these symbols aren't even considered an imminent hazard. Like that one mesmer marking that had coaxed the owl that night to hoot. Some could do a serious number on your skin, like that dispel marking forcing the shadows to shrink back. And others, the more powerful ones Akaashi doesn't dare to use as of now, could cause one to fall into the brink of corruption.

Akaashi touches the scar tissue gingerly. No additional feeling of pain jumps up.

The one only reason why this technique is forbidden to use by envoys is that these symbols are cast by the use of lowly ayakashi and their ilk.

The shadows fuse with the skin and the dormant energies in it, activating the marking in the process. The more markings you use, or the more powerful they are, the more corrupt you can become. The pain is due to the fusion: it's almost a burning into the flesh, and the repercussive pain follows for days on end.

And yet, Akaashi had taken the risk, neglecting the two rules all envoys should abide to. _Do not use the technique_ , and _When it's time to leave, do not linger_.

He wonders if, in faintest consideration of possibility, that when time comes, he will break the second rule, too.

:::

Akaashi doesn't head off to Fukurodani Gakuen today.

There's simply no point when the shadows clinging to his wrist would refocus his attention at most troublesome moments, and the casual reminder of his arm's translucency only he could see telling him, "Time's running up."

Akaashi has also stopped counting the days and nights spent here. It serves no purpose other than give him a sense of dread, that he will be ripped away from his current life very soon.

His mind drifts off on its own course. _I hope Bokuto can do fine without me._

And Sarukui, and Konoha. The wing spikers wouldn't do well without a setter. It's just regular club today, however, no practice matches scheduled, and it brings temporary relief to Akaashi and assuages the tickle of guilt in his throat.

"They're going to be fine," Akaashi assures himself. They've always taken care of themselves, even before Akaashi broke into their lives on short notice.

His phone vibrates against his thigh, and with delayed realization, Akaashi responds by hefting the slab of technology to his eye level. Three new texts, all from Bokuto Koutarou, blinks from black. The LED flashes red, notifying him of the incoming onslaught of messages.

He taps the bubble, and the app opens up.

 **where r u akaashi are u at school**

The smiley emoticon accompanying the expectant question is begrudgingly happy. Akaashi scrolls down to reveal four more.

 _Your typing needs work._ Akaashi has already spied a few obtrusive typos.

 **are u sick**

 **are u tired**

"Yes, Bokuto-san, tired of your constant whining."

 **are u mad at me**

Akaashi can't answer this question. Truth is, he sort of is angered. Bokuto, when left alone, seeks for attention, and when he receives that attention, never lets go. Thus, the rather irritating presence of the third year tagging behind him, a supposed second year, is something that nagged at Akaashi's wavering patience.

But his anger towards himself is far more persistent and demanding. And somewhere deep inside, he isn't willing to admit that he actually enjoys Bokuto's company, even if he could be obnoxious at times.

It would end up bad for him to get too attached.

:::

The windows are lit, indicating the presence of family. Akaashi flicks off a thick strand of shadow, and it flops in mid-air, writhing disapprovingly before disappearing into the darkness pooling at his ankles. He has no right sense of mind when he raises a fist and raps on the door twice. It's a horrible joke gone wrong; _knock knock, who's there? A pathetic fill-in who did their job wrong on the first day, and is now in line to a premature leave._ A seed of hope sprouts in his chest cavity, and tension causes his muscles to cramp. Suddenly, he hopes no one would answer the door.His fleeting wish isn't important enough to be granted."Hello?" His hair is dripping wet and trailing on his shoulders, a towel slotted between the hair and his shoulderblades.Akaashi wrings his hand in response to the blossoming anxiety. "Bokuto-san..."A quizzical tilt, then the dilation of pupils. "Akaashi? Why - how -"

"Sorry," Akaashi breezes, words jumbling in the hurry. "I'm sorry, I wasn't feeling well..." Why is he stumbling for excuses? He shouldn't have come here in the first place, and the apology doesn't even feel genuine, even to himself.

The sentence fades, and the silence enrobes them. _Snap it_ , Akaashi urges himself, _don't let the silence run for too long - don't let it consume everything meant to be said - don't -_ "You weren't at practice," Bokuto murmurs, and the sharpness, the volume, grows. "You weren't even at school! And now you're at my house? Just to apologize for something you never did wrong?" _Because I have no home to go to._ _Because I've done plenty of sorry things._ _Because I wanted to make sure you're okay._ Akaashi opens his mouth; his lips are forming words but no sound is coming out. His friend is far away, and Akaashi cannot reach him with mere, mundane words. Akaashi isn't here, immaterial, and Bokuto is living. They'd never meet in the middle, because the intermediate region simply does not exist.It comes out as a shock.The tears fall before he registers the wetness, and it's a different wetness than shadows or his blood, a different kind of pain. Bokuto does not know why his friend is crying; Akaashi knows that. He feels like apologizing; Bokuto has no need to see his own breakdown in this vivid, gruesome fashion. It's Akaashi's own stupidity that made him this way, mistakes he cannot fix all rushing towards him like a coursing river, raw with power. He's breathless, the sweetness has been pried away from his lungs, and the protrusions of his crumbling life are intangible, slipping out of his grasp -But Bokuto's hands are warm, and very, very real. It's the only thing Akaashi is willing to accept, the plain fact that the touch is the only thing he's hanging onto from now, and with such urgency, as if it'll slip away if he loosened his fingers by even the tiniest margin.It's his turn to be comforted, and the silence between them quells his sobbing, just by a little bit.


	9. day: human connection

Akaashi is at school the next day. Or rather, he wants Bokuto to perk up a bit, by showing up. Bokuto is ecstatic, and suddenly, the sinewy shadows clinging to his hands and arms don't matter anymore.

Last night, he had spilled tears over something barely worth the cry. Bokuto had grabbed his hands in his own, large, overshadowing ones, to stop the nervous knot Akaashi's hands were tying themselves into, a bad habit he's developed. Akaashi's fingers were longer than the former, and his fingernails had carved crescent-shaped markings on Bokuto's hand. Bokuto doesn't say anything about it.

Akaashi is feeling better today, after the release of emotions. At club, everyone on the team greeted him with high fives, greetings, even a rare hug from one of the managers, Shirofuku-san.

He's going to miss them all when he leaves.

His tosses are done with a clean pose and a flawless posture. His mouth and throat are sore from yelling in excitement, as Fukurodani smashes through with an unbridled victory, winning one set after another. Bokuto tells him about the cat when walking home, and suggests he and Akaashi adopt it together. "It's just like a family," he'd said, with childish eagerness, "just you, the cat, and I. I can't wait for you to meet it. He's so sneaky and playful sometimes, unlike those boring cats that lie around and sleep all day."

But Akaashi's brain only registers everything up to the word "family."

Without consciously noticing it, he's begun to call this place "home", here in Tokyo, Japan, here in Fukurodani Gakuen. Here, in the volleyball club, and by the captain's side. Here, this moment, every precious moment spent with this group of people, his family. A haphazard mix of people by chance and of no blood relation, but a family, nonetheless. It's childish thinking, Akaashi knows, but when had he not been a child, afraid of the world, afraid that his own actions could bring upon shame and destruction upon others or himself?

What's it like to leave the very place he finally found happiness, and a home he belongs to?

It would feel empty, for sure, like traipsing through sand and chipped bottles at a waterless lake. Where lakes are meant to be full of life and of freshwater, of seaweed and multicolored, iridescent fish, but an empty lake has nothing to deliver. Fukurodani is a seed, and he is the shell, facing the eventual moment where he will be discarded. Will he be like that, still clinging onto his old life, when he gets reassigned?

Kei is on the tree branch when Akaashi enters the forest after the busy day, shaking off leaves like confetti when he jumps off to greet him. "What are you doing at my tree?" Akaashi says, sinking his back onto the flaking wood.

"Since when was this your tree."

"What I mean is - "

" - what I'm doing here, yes," Kei completes for him. "Don't tell me I'm the only one who has noticed your arm, envoy-san."

"It's Akaashi." He has no time reserved for the youkai's strange sense of humor and dry wit.

"Your arm's name is Akaashi."

He has no time left for anything, but surely, he can say his goodbyes?

Akaashi turns so his back blocks the sarcasm. The transparency has since crept up his arm and is touching the base of his neck. It's dotted with golds, greens, and browns, hues from the forest.

"I..." he fidgets with his choice of words, as well as with his fingers, as if playing Cat's Cradle by himself. "I'm leaving soon."

It's easy to tell Kei, because he's a youkai and they've only met a few days ago. He hears a shuffle, and the shaking of beads colliding with each other as Kei moves his staff. "Ah. Your job's almost done, is it?"

Akaashi fights the prickling of tears in his sore eyes. "No," he coughs; his vocal cords must have gone through extensive torture to produce such a wrangled sound. "I'm leaving sooner than I expected." Because he had fiddled with markings, and had gotten himself in a whole heap of trouble. Trouble for himself, and trouble for his friend.

"I'm not ready to leave yet," he swallows, and they spill out like warm honey, streaking his face.

"Aren't we all," Kei sighs, and throws his staff into the air. The beads jangle in a mocking tone.

"It's different for you," Akaashi says. Unlike Kei, who can be retained in someone's memories, who can go anywhere he pleases, stay in the place he calls home, Akaashi cannot. Kei is carefree, and Akaashi is bound by regulations. "I'm spending my days amongst humans, pretending to be one of their kind, and yet knowing I'll never be one. Just when I thought I belonged somewhere, that life grounding me is being snatched away from my feet." Whereas youkai do not abide to any rules, has no obligations, following the current like a leaf floating on the white crashing waves of an ocean.

"We're not so different." Kei snickers. "Except in our ability to fight. What's with that horrible grip of yours? You should get a tutor to teach you how to properly use a sword."

Akaashi feels something, red hot as magma, rise into his windpipe, and his voice comes out thick and grating. "As if you'll ever understand!" he snaps; the flames are overpowering any clear conscience, they are burning his skin and tearing his heart asunder, into a million, unrecognizable pieces.

"Calm down," Kei insists, calm and yet a tad disgusted, and Akaashi's mind clears. The heat fades, replaced with a chilling cold soothing his neck. His fingertips, still covered in strings of black shadow, shake in horror at the realization of what he's just done.

"I'm sorry." Dizzily, his head droops, and chin touches chest, which is beating furiously. "I don't know what got to me."

"Think about it this way," the youkai says, and suddenly it's turned into a lecture. "Is there anything you've done that you've regretted?"

"This isn't helping, you know," Akaashi grumbles, cheek pressed against the rough bark.

"Have you experienced any joy? Sadness? Ambivalence? Anger? Everything you feel is valid, even if you're not human." Akaashi feels every fiber of his being aching in tune with his heartbeat, but despite this, he struggles to pose himself in a sitting position, as he listens to the youkai's diatribe. "What is being human, exactly? Is it measured by your race, your culture, your DNA? Or is it something simple? Tell me, Akaashi-san."

"Look at you, acting all wise and knowing."

"I've been here for quite some time, Akaashi-san. Perhaps I'm even older than you," he suggests, and it's probably true, but Akaashi does not openly admit this. Does Kei remember his past as a human? Or is he merely showing off his vocabulary?

"In my own personal opinion, being human is to simply have experiences, good or bad. Having your own opinions, morals, and values. Every thought and moment counts, and gradually, layers by layers of emotions and memories coalesce into an unique personality. So no, I wouldn't say you aren't as human as they are, if not more. In fact, when you stepped into my venerable property, and the way you tried to comfort me, even though I didn't need help, I mistook you for a human until you revealed your true self."

Akaashi does not say anything. He can't physically open his mouth; his lips are glued together. He does not know what to say, even if he tried.

 _I wouldn't say you aren't as human as they are, if not more._

His mouth twitches, but not for speaking vocally. His smile, though hidden from sight, speaks volumes.

When he finally speaks, it is just as dry as Kei's usual demeanor.

"Is that so."


	10. day: uprising

It happens again.

The cafeteria is full of chatters and cachinnating students, conversing about the latest gossip, and of relationships going on in the school. Not that any of that matters to Akaashi, he doesn't want to know about what the others are doing, as he's not sticking around to see any progress happen to them.

He's chewing on his sandwich. The meat is tender and cold, spiced just right, and the ginger sears his tongue with its strong flavor. He had agreed to meet Bokuto in these halls, but the third year is nowhere to be seen.

He's late. As to be expected; Bokuto, on a whole, is an open book, easy to talk to and friendly to everyone he meets, gullible yet smart in a way. He's multifaceted, like a gemstone: when you tilt it one way, the shine and iridescent sheen is unique, different from the quality you get when you tilt it in another degree. Easily changed by the words and actions of others. _Careful, Bokuto-san, your heart may just be broken someday from getting tossed and jostled around too much, with that sort of unguarded demeanor._

The familiar crop of hair is too obscene for the school environment, for Bokuto's own sake. A bird may have made its nest there, and the third year wouldn't even notice, is the feeling Akaashi gets from looking at the outrageous hairstyle. "Sorry to keep you waiting," Bokuto says, tossing a can of pop to the ambivalent second year. Akaashi catches it expertly in one hand, as if he's used to this - he probably is supposed to be, considering how envoys blend in impeccably into their situations.

The sudden chill of the aluminum can is not nearly as overbearing as the hot feeling surging from his stomach, biting his insides.

"Didn't you say you would be here in five minutes?" Akaashi fires, and the instant the sentence is vocal his conscience relinquishes the explosion, removing toxins from his voice.

Bokuto bristles under the angry evocation. "Calm down, Akaashi, please," he says, and the last part is almost pleading.

"I'm sorry," Akaashi mumbles weakly into a pressed palm. "I'm so sorry, for yelling."

Akaashi hates the fact that Bokuto's beginning to grow wary of him.

His unnecessary violence must be a result of tampering with shadow markings. The shadow ayakashi were beginning to influence his actions, and it isn't long before he might actually hurt someone.

For a time, Akaashi has been scared of the world, for dangers lurk everywhere, ubiquitous and merciless. Now, he's afraid of himself.

 _How pathetic._

* * *

The gym doors quake with each volleyball slammed onto the walls. The light beckons him, but by then, Akaashi's eyes are staring at his feet, not above, where volleyball players are always looking: towards the sky, towards the ball's course.

As usual, the forest path is calming, empty of sound, and that reflects Akaashi's inner self: he feels hollow to the tip of his bones. Muttering something nonsensical, he watches the leaves' outline as it rustles, and a beetle crawl up the tree's trunk, tiny legs searching for a foothold.

Kei isn't here today, but Akaashi has already bid him farewell a day ago. He hopes that no one would disturb the queer, wisecracking, and sapient soul ever again.

It's lonely without someone to talk to.

* * *

He peruses the heterochromatic street signs with a nonchalant glance. The bridge is rusted with age and lack of maintenance, but the water flowing beneath is strong and healthy, a pulsing stream of white froth and deep blue. There are smooth pebbles the size of 100yen coins tiling the sand, and cherry petals carried by the river's natural trajectory, going on an impromptu journey of their own.

The thickness of the bridge railing is not enough to keep Akaashi on his toes when the wave of pain hits.

It's at an entirely new level, this experience, and instead of live coals, he's stepping on magma itself. It scars his vision, cutting all colours out in chunks, and the metal bars clasping his nose is indicative that he had fallen down. Every sensation is magnified tenfold, bird chirps are pecking at his earlobes, the sound of water rushing over stone is a crash of waves, and his feet - Akaashi can't feel the solid ground supporting him anymore, and he's tumbling, gyrating into nothingness.

The water is discordant, but he focuses all his senses towards the jagged sound. And listens, even though everything is quieting down, muffled by his pain receptors crying out.

The red noise slowly recedes, bit by bit, and Akaashi can stand up again, on jelly-like legs. The breeze is soothing to his mind, and brings his soul at peace once more. The bird squawks and flies away, in the far distance. The river is no longer raging.

Akaashi stumbles upright, hands tightly grasping the handrail as if it were his sole chance of survival. Colours whizz past him, and his legs are guiding his frail, helpless body and mind by themselves, supporting the fact he could not take care of himself. A playground, children rocking back and forth on the swing, little hands poised to touch the unreachable sky. The sidewalk, grains of dusty brown and washboard grey. The hum of a motor, the whoosh of air slipping as a bicycle shares the lane, then surges forward, leaving the slow pedestrian behind.

"Are you mad at me?"

Akaashi whirls around at the questioning sound of Bokuto's voice. How - why was Bokuto-san here? "What?"

"I finally found you!" Bokuto's breathing heavily, taking in a breath every few seconds. He must have ran around a lot, before coming here, in front of the school. The clock, the square, blocky shape of the buildings, the reflective windows, and Akaashi stares agape at the familiar scenery. Akaashi realizes, with a sickening thump of his heart, that he'd let himself wander back to Fukurodani.

"You didn't answer my texts, so I wouldn't know. You weren't at practice, and that thing during lunch..." Bokuto's fingers play with themselves. "Are you mad?" he whispers.

Yes, he is mad, he's mad and sick with himself, and of the unfairness of the world. The shadows creep in further on his leg, mimicking the elongating and condensing action of a caterpillar. Akaashi pats it away with a profound reluctance.

"No, I'm not mad," Akaashi claims, and turns to walk away. He isn't successful in this endeavor, because Bokuto stops him with a warm hand on the shoulder. Akaashi's muscles tense.

"What is it?" he sighs, with strained tolerance. He pries each finger off of him, flicking the tips one by one. "I've already answered your question."

"During lunch..."

"Don't bring this up again." He's tired of it.

Bokuto doesn't let go. "During lunch, it was my fault, for keeping you waiting. I'm sorry."

Akaashi's neck tingles, and suddenly, he snaps, stepping out of his carefully set boundaries. "Don't apologize for me! I've already told you to drop the subject! Oh my god, you're such a pain sometimes - " he rubs a hand over his his face, barely concealing the heightened pitch and intensity of his ever growing voice.

Bokuto's hair droops, and his forehead crinkles. _Hurt, are we_ , Akaashi thinks.

"Why... why are you acting like this..." A forlorn whimper, but Akaashi isn't giving in to these poor attempts at being sorry. Is he sincerely hoping for a loophole, a way out of this?

"I'm sure Kuroo would understand. He's your best friend, isn't he? Though in the end, it's all for naught. Perhaps he's feeling more at ease, now that he doesn't have to spend any time by your side."

Bokuto freezes at the mention of his deceased friend's name. "Why are you mentioning him at such a time," he growls lowly, but retains a mellow overtone.

One step forward.

"You know him best. Do you know anything about me? Probably not, and I'm eternally grateful for that." His fists are shaking with each word he spits out, and he cannot stop the words from pouring into the space between them. "Apparently I'm not good enough. I'm not even good enough for myself!" But you, on the other hand, you're too good for anyone. A boiling hot rage festers in his chest, raw and carnal, and each failed attempt by Bokuto to calm the tides just dumps more wood into the flame.

"What are you talking about? Akaashi," Bokuto tries to decrease the distance between them, "you're not making sense - "

Akaashi, two steps back.

"You're the one who's not making sense." Stuck in a fantasy, while Akaashi's been plunged into grim, macabre reality. "You don't know anything! Do you even come close to knowing how hard it is to replace someone? When you're doubting yourself at every turn of the road? It's hard helping someone like you! I don't know why I tried."

"Is that what you think." And it's quiet, too quiet, a somber day with grey clouds and no rain.

"I never needed you to replace Kuroo. He was my best friend, and you're my friend too, but you never needed to feel obliged to fill that position in!" Bokuto grows silent, but he is persistent in his manner of speaking. "It doesn't help me in any way."

Akaashi blinks, but no tears come. The anger he feels a moment ago vaporizes, replaced by a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. His heart is devoid of emotion, wrapped in a blanket nullifying and neutralizing every sensation he should be feeling in that situation. His ears are stuffed with cotton, dampening all sound coming from Bokuto's mouth; all he can see are lips moving, shouting mutely through soundproof glass.

 _I never needed you._

He turns his back against his charge.

And runs the other way.


	11. night: everlasting

**A/N:** This is the second last chapter! Thanks for sticking with me; although this is not my best writing I hope you all enjoyed it.

* * *

Two minutes in, his legs give way, and he tumbles, headfirst, into a patch of grass. They tickle his nose as he breathes, the fresh scent sears his nostrils and an euphoric feeling bubbles up, until it is countered with his guilt. It forces him in a crouching position, far into a stuffy corner, and pins him to the ground. He tries to take in air, but the iron weight pushes down on his chest.

Akaashi can't replace him. He isn't competent enough, for his jokes lack mirth, his movements are anything but powerful, and even his voice: soft, mature for the age he appears to be, does not match. Lead fills his veins, and he hears his own sound of defeat crash upon the grass, a bedlam of jangling, discordant notes.

In all the decisions he'd had to make for his entire lifespan, the one, suggestive voice that had told him to accept Bokuto was the worst.

The reason why he had accepted the offer isn't nominally important; it's the following flash of anger that blinds his hollow, emotionless eyes, later giving way to an abhorrent wave of regret, cerulean topped with white foam crashing against promises like broken glass. Each breath is a forward step into a depression of jagged splinters, and the blood is not flowing, not trailing behind and burying itself in the past, no, it was splayed in ribbons before him, twisting this and that way. And Akaashi doesn't bat an eye; his depleted energy has left even his eyelids motionless and wary.

He'd made a promise, under the limitless span of sky. Now, he has reached that limit, and the promise breaks itself into dust.

He's regretting every moment of his sorry life with his charge.

He wants to be relieved of the burden pressing his chest.

He wants to be reassigned.

And this time, out of all the wishes he's made, this one is granted, and his head is submerged completely in glass, translucent head to toe. The timer goes off in his head, a ringing bell shimmering. His arm starts to peel away into scintillating particles, blown away by the wind weaving through the treetops, and he sighs in pure contentment and bliss.

Whatever punishment he's been assigned to, due to using the forbidden technique, Akaashi can handle it. He's just glad he's going back to where he came from, his home.

Home.

Akaashi blinks open eyes he doesn't remember closing. The streets of Tokyo faces him, lanterns glowing with red, a beating heart. People clamoring over a hearty dinner. A little girl showing her mom of a picture she's drawn.

Going north, Fukurodani Gakuen resides by a ravine. The gym is packed today, as a neighboring school has requested a practice match. Komi is receiving every powerful spike with his bare arms, Konoha and Sarukui are gaining points for the team. Onaga and Washio defend the six, and one of their benchwarmers must be setting. And Bokuto's plays make up at least a quarter of those points, if he hasn't gone through his dejected mode yet.

Bokuto.

His spine snaps upwards in a sudden hurry. Where is he right now? Bokuto isn't at club, he was arguing with Akaashi. And due to his duplicitous nature, his rapid mood swings, could be anywhere now. And Akaashi has denied that fact for a long time.

Akaashi stamps his palm to the ground, and pushes himself up with a grunt. He needs to hurry, before anything bad happens. The street scenery paces at his sides, of dilapidated buildings, deciduous trees, and windows spilling squares of light on the sidewalk.

Reassigning could wait.

* * *

Bokuto squeezes his eyes shut while he walks, knowing the sidewalk is empty and he would not collide into anything.

The air is humid, dripping with moisture. It's going to rain soon. Flashbacks of the accident pummels his head and steals the darkness of his vision, and even without meaning to, images and sounds begin their playback.

Kuroo had been texting that day, while driving.

They've agreed to meet at the corner store, and they were looking forward to this, as both of them have not seen each other for a long time.

The moon had been hidden behind ominous clouds, but other than that, nothing had hinted at what was going to happen next.

And Bokuto, oh, he could've done something, maybe tell Kuroo to focus on the road; it was raining, for heaven's sakes! But Bokuto didn't, and the next thing he knew, his best friend got into an accident.

And the headlights were blinding, taking vision and sorrow prospects of joy away from him.

He rubs the memory from his eyes and looks forward, stomping his feet while walking. Akaashi... he had tried to be like Kuroo, in order to ease Bokuto back into his regular self. All this time, Bokuto has thought the change in Akaashi's stoic personality at times, even though scarce, was due to him warming up a little bit more during the spring season. Or when he had cried that silent night, showing a side to him Bokuto has never seen before. Not because of _this_.

Akaashi is his friend, and so was Kuroo. Both of them were dear to him, in different ways. As much as he is tormented with guilt over his best friend's death, he does not need Akaashi to change his personality in order to fit Bokuto's crumbling resolve.

Across the street, the lights glow, and Bokuto knows they're supposed to be red, yellow, or green, but the colors are blending into each other, a pasty grey smothered over the traffic. Someone is yelling, someone he recognizes, but only in his subconscious. Something tells him to pay attention to that voice, and he lifts his head in bewilderment.

Sometimes, there's this one moment where all your memories, all the mistakes, every feeling you've felt over the past few years, comes rushing at you in a dazzling torrent of emotions and colors, a showcase of the life you've lived. And time is just a construct to make it even more apparent that life is a limited thing, but that one moment can cause time to stop in its tracks. Bokuto is experiencing that one moment right now, and it's like deja vu: the grilles of the car, the brilliant white headlights burning in his eyes. Only this time, it's much, much closer.

And there is a large difference, because Akaashi is there, in front of the car.

Akaashi. Is. There.

The car screeches to a halt, a earstabbing pierce echoing off the streetlights, and time is stopped yet again. The world blurs and sways, lights dot his vision, and there are feathers, _feathers_ littering the asphalt; he's done it again. He has done it again.

His voice is hoarse; it's not his, this voice, this pleading voice. Screaming his friend's name into the dead of night.

Akaashi hears his own name being called, and a pinprick of warmth slides down his stomach. _It's Bokuto-san_ , he smiles inwardly; _he's here, and everything is going to be fine, Keiji._

His wings are unfolding, brushing his back. He doesn't need to feel the feathers, coarse against his skin, to know that whatever extra time he was clinging to is up. Akaashi has to leave before it's too late. Before the memories Bokuto had of him could not be erased.

Bokuto would continue to live. Akaashi had, at least, made sure of that, and this is one thing he's not regretting, saving his friend like this. This gripping feeling, driven by impulse and shot with adrenaline, is this the feeling of accomplishment Bokuto-san had mentioned, in one of their earlier conversations? To describe the sensation isn't remotely important, but it's fulfilling, like "I've finally done something right, Bokuto-san." If Akaashi leaves on time, then Bokuto, as well as everyone who has seen or have met Akaashi, would cease to have him in their memories. He'll fade from existence, and if he were lucky enough, get another charge, a renewed situation, and the cycle would repeat. After all, Bokuto is a living human being, Akaashi isn't, and they'd never be able to coexist in one world.

But just to be amusing, Akaashi lets this infantile thought tickle his mindset.

Maybe they've always been in between material and immaterial. Maybe somewhere, will it be another lifetime or another existence, they could spend more time, both as humans, laughing and crying through their life together. Akaashi holds onto this sliver of twilight-coloured hope, keeping it close to his heart.

He can see it, a still image flashing before his eyes. _April 7; He's gone too,_ the diary will say, before he remembers that it wouldn't even happen. When Akaashi leaves, there would be nothing to remember him by with, and Bokuto would wake up one morning with a bittersweet dream in his head.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, knowing the apology would never reach him, and even if it were to, what was the point? Apologies never cut it, it is only a mask, a cowardly way out, especially if you didn't mean it with your whole, exposed heart. There has to be a little bit more, like a hiccup to your voice, or an embrace, to show the genuity of it. Akaashi does not have enough time to fully express his sincere apologies, in a courteous way. Bokuto's knees are shaking, his cheeks red and slick with moisture, and the headlights frame his sturdy figure until he's glowing.

Akaashi will never get to have that dinner, and even if he knows his friend's birthday, would never be around to celebrate it.

Akaashi wants to say more, to let Bokuto know what he feels, about the strange feeling twisting his gut, all warm and aching and full of longing, but the words are not necessary, because Bokuto understands, somehow. And Akaashi sees his eyes, and they're intense, brimming with shock and grief.

They're made of starlight, and they are stars, in their own right.


	12. twilight: setting sun

With feet as light as feathers, the man with the beautifully-designed mask steps into the cylindrical room. His pale, coppery hair give off a lucent light from the stream of sunlight slipping in above. It is the only light in the room only composed of shadows.

Behind him, a cage rattles, metal against metal harsh upon his ears. The Head swerves around, and smirks beneath his mask.

"How have you been doing, Tobio-chan?"

The dark-feathered glares between the bars encapsulating him, eyebags a shade darker than his hair. "You tell me," he whispers, a threat that bounces off of the Head as easily as water to a pond.

"You know," the Head says, as he surveys the rest of the residents in the cage room, a few hanging on chains on the ceiling, a few quartered on the floor, "you're the one who got into this predicament. Pretty sure I _did_ tell you about the second rule -"

"You bastard," Kageyama Tobio huffs, his manacles clanging as he beats the padlocked door with his fists. "As if that rule is fair."

"It's for your own good that rule is in place," the Head murmurs, voice dropping by a few decibels as he trails off. "It's not good to get attached to the real world. You should know you don't belong there."

With a sweep of his kimono the Head walks out of the room, face and throat tight. Another winged, the advisor Moniwa, pops out to greet him.

"Has Keiji been led to his temporary residence?" the Head asks stiffly, mind wandering off to foreign edges of the world, and abstract views on life and death and everything in between.

"Thinking about something philosophical again?" Moniwa says in reply. "And yes, he was in the hanging cage, top left corner. Did you not see him?"

"Didn't feel like it," the Head states. Then, he turns, and the elegant carvings, red as blood, gleam at the advisor's small face, almost in threat. "Do you think I'm being too harsh, Moniwa?"

The advisor waves his two arms. "I, of all people, know how dangerous shadow casting can be."

"Ah yes. Kenji-kun, was it? Futakuchi Kenji."

Moniwa drops his head. "I'm sorry for his behavior."

"No need to apologize for something that happened so long ago." The Head sighs, hands rubbing his temples. "Only now, Keiji seems to have made the same mistake."

"Is..." Moniwa's voice is quiet, barely recognizable, save for the fact that the hallway amplified sound so that the Head could still manage to catch it. "Is he going to suffer the same fate?"

"You don't have to worry about that."

"I have the right to. Even though Futakuchi did wrong, even though he disobeyed both rules, I... really don't think he deserved to be chained for that long, by himself."

The Head's voice is a contrast, clear and flinty. "After a few days, you'll know my decision."

"But -"

"Do you know why I cage them?" the Head nearly shouts. His hand reaches for his mask, and carefully, it is torn away from the man's face. Two hardened eyes watch the candle-like flicker of the lights on the wall, before transferring to Moniwa's now fearful expression.

"I want to remind them that even with wings, they're bound to rules, that while they have their own freedom, that doesn't mean they can do whatever they want to. This is a fact they can't ever escape. This is what their choice they made, a long time ago, resulted in." The Head brushes the back of his hand across his eyes, and Moniwa watches, knowingly, the tears that must have budded there, tears the man didn't want anyone to witness in the low lighting.

Oikawa takes a breath in, and when he opens his mouth again to speak, it hardly makes a sound. "I don't want them to die again."

* * *

Akaashi wakes to an enveloping darkness, and an insistent rattling, sharp and furious.

His wings ache, his arms ache. His whole body feels like a rusted automaton, abandoned, damaged by the elements. Akaashi tries to stretch the aches out, only for his arms to hit the curved surfaces of bars standing side-by-side. The impact echoes with a hollow _clang_.

"Is anyone here?" Akaashi whispers, and even as soft as he was, a flurry of rustling burst into activity all around his cage. A few voices begin chattering.

The rattling breaks into a rhythmic howl of noise to his left. Akaashi strains to see the source of the horrid noise, and, peering below, notices a curled-up form, dark as night, shaking in his cage.

"What happened," Akaashi breathes, but before he can even begin to wonder -

"He got emotionally attached," a listless voice answers, clearly underlined with just the slightest disappointment.

Akaashi leans forward in his cage.

The first thing he notices is that the source of the voice did not have wings. He seems no older than a young boy, however Akaashi knew better than to make assumptions. A white ribbon wraps around his forehead. His wrists are cut by shackles chaining the boy to a deadweight.

"Who are you?" Akaashi questions, though he doesn't expect to get a straightforward answer.

"I'm locked here just like you," Wingless says, scratching at where his shackles bind him.

Beside him, the dark-haired prisoner rattles the cage in a bout of anger. "My charge still needs me! He's probably doing stupid things right now and I can't do anything about it -"

Wingless cuts him off. "Your stupidity landed you here, Kageyama-san. If I were you, I would stay quiet."

Kageyama goes silent. Akaashi stares at Wingless with newfound curiosity and a twinge of nervousness.

Wingless's two cat-like eyes glow a rough color of honey. "Kozume... Kenma," he mumbles. "You must be Akaashi Keiji?"

Akaashi retreats a bit, taken aback. "How did you know."

Kozume walks forward, dragging the deadweight along with him. The deadweight scrapes against the floor unwillingly, leaving disgraceful welts in the process. His eye glints, flashing with a suppressed emotion - anger? sadness? - before returning to its normal, watered-down hue. "The Head may be the crown, but I'm the brain of this operation. He doesn't forget that, even if I'm locked up here."

"If you're the brain," Kageyama growls, "why are you a prisoner just like us?"

Kozume ignores the irate envoy with feigned uninterest, drifting back to Akaashi's mute expression. _Sort of surprised, sort of on the path of understanding. Akaashi Keiji is... interesting._ "I guess you haven't heard," Kozume announces, to no one in particular, " but in five days I can leave. And I'll be taking care of your charge then." The last sentence is directed to Akaashi.

Akaashi feels his legs go numb, his heart heavier than lead. A disturbing wetness pricks his eyes. "I... was the one who messed up my duty," he says, forcing the emotion ravaging his voice to cease in order to create a false illusion of collectedness. "Bokuto Koutarou should be my responsibility, and mine alone."

"...No," Kozume says, after a long, tension-driven elapse of time. "You're not the only one to blame here."

His throat threatening to collapse at any given moment, Akaashi grabs the bars in front of him, pressing his face as hard as possible in order to see Kozume better, to allow his voice to travel better - "I was the one who used the forbidden technique! I was the one who ran away, and left him..." At loss for words, his random burst fades, leaving only a dead silence and the to-and-fro swing of his cage.

Kozume twiddles his fingers as he speaks, with a firmness to his words that can't be duplicated. "Shadow casting? Believe me, some have done worse."

Akaashi is no longer in the mood nor has the energy to argue. His tired voice is striated with hints of defeat. "Like what."

"Kageyama," Kozume addresses the brooding envoy suddenly. Kageyama's head, visible by only the crown from Akaashi's vantage point, jerks up. "You asked me why I'm locked up here, right?"

"Right."

Kozume raises his right arm, and his chains jingle. "It's partially my fault you're in this mess, Keiji."

Dust particles shift lazily in the sunlight band separating two halves of black. As Kozume tilts his head, some particles glitter as they disperse and scatter, receding into the darker bands, like snuffed-out stars.

Akaashi is scared to ask "how?", but just lucky enough, Kozume answers for him:

"I let my charge die."

A shudder of silence ripples through the imprisoned, previous chatter dying down until one could hear a pin drop. When Akaashi's voice returns, it is blaringly loud in the enclosure of ceased breathing. "Your charge?"

Kozume purses his lips, and nods. "My charge. Kuroo Tetsurou."

* * *

Around afternoon, the gym is never empty, full of athletes getting ready for their next practice match. The weather had been improving lately, from cloudless blue skies to a calm breeze on a balmy day, and with the nice weather came spirited yells and roaring cheers, the bouncing of balls and tennis racket _pings_.

Only one gym is absent from the hustle, from the relentless energy of youth. The cart of volleyballs is tucked in a corner, untouched. The players are sitting on the bench, immovable. The coach crosses his arms and stares at the door, eyes catching even the slightest of movements.

And when the captain walks in, the strain is broken by footfalls across the parquet, and of arms held out in an embrace. They know how much the captain is suffering. He hasn't stepped onto court in two days.

Even tense moments like this are sorely snapped in two after a few minutes, however, as Komi steps away, gaze fixated on Bokuto's tear-stained face, observing the twitches of the captain's facial muscles. "What were you thinking," he murmurs, and there is a brusque tone to his voice, one the rest of the team have never witnessed prior to now.

"I..." After resting for two days, Bokuto almost believed he would be okay by now, that his head would stop ringing, his eyes would stop replaying those bright, white headlights... "I...?"

"A car almost hit you, and you passed out on the street." Komi's face flushes red, with an anger he's trying so hard to keep in that he's shuddering from head to toe. "A witness called 119, and you were whisked to the hospital. What were you thinking?"

Bokuto's normally clear-cut voice is quivering. "I don't," he starts, but just then, he can't speak anymore. Something... no, some _one,_ is missing. Some sort of presence, some... "Wh-Where's Akaashi?"

Komi tilts his head. "What are you talking about?"

"My friend?" _Is everyone going insane or is it just me?_ "You know, about this tall, with black hair? Second year? Our setter?"

"Our setter has always been a first year. Bokuto-san, are you okay? Did that near accident leave you in some sort of trauma?"

Bokuto shakes his head rapidly, mind working up a fuss. _No, he's real. Akaashi is real, I swear._

"No," he mutters, pacing about. The car, the screech, the smell of burning tires... those white, white lights... and that smile, right before Akaashi disappeared, fading into dust, a smile built on a thousand _sorrys_ and a million _goodbyes,_ mixed with grief, fear, and just -

\- and just the tiniest bit of joy -

Bokuto spins around, a whirlwind of emotions playing across the strings of his heart, a fast 3/4 melody plucked by expert hands on a rustic guitar. "Where is he? He should be here by now. He's, he's always the first one here..." He can't think properly, his forehead is hot, burning up. There are voices telling him to calm down, there are arms trying to help him up, _why are they so calm? How can they stay so calm?_

"Bokuto-san," Onaga says, a little strained, "please." The first-year hands Bokuto a water bottle.

"He's real, I swear." With a parched throat, he takes the water bottle in his hand, fumbles with it, drops it. "He was here just a few days ago. He'll come back."

 _That smile was too impassioned, was too pained, to not be real._

* * *

Two strong hands secure themselves onto the prisoner's shoulders, pushing him forcibly forward. His heels dig into the concrete.

"Where am I going?" Akaashi asks, though he knows exactly where he's headed.

"Judgement," one of the guards says.

The other guard says nothing, though his pupils narrow.

Into a new room, and the air is not as stuffy, more breathable in the spacious area. Akaashi's wrists are relieved of their shackles, and he rotates them slowly, getting rid of the aches.

His hand props itself onto a table in the middle. To Akaashi's front, a podium made of white marble; to his right, a _shoji_ screen that pulls apart to reveal a looming mask - the Head steps in, feet tapping until he reaches the podium, arms swaying at his sides.

A sound emanates from Akaashi's left - a distinct screeching sound of a weight being dragged - Akaashi realizes with a start that it's Kozume-san. He's come here to take the blame.

Under the brightly-lit room, Kozume is even more dignified as he half-walks, half-limps in, mouth set in a thin line. The Head seems to acknowledge Kozume's presence with a quizzical "huh?", as if he knows that with Kozume here, this viewing would be just that much more interesting.

"This is Keiji-kun's judgement, Kenma," the Head says. "You should not be here."

Begrudgingly, Kozume looks at the Head with a wide, empty stare. "It should be mine too."

"Aww. What happened to you? You used to be quiet and enclosed in your own bubble."

"Kuroo," Kozume clips. "That's what happened."

The Head, whose neck had been stretched out in examination of the uninvited guest, retreats a little. "Kenma, you know... let's not. Now, Akaashi Keiji, please state what you have thought long and hard about."

Akaashi lets out a bated breath. "I want to go back."

"Of course you do. And you're not the one who makes that decision, Keiji-kun."

Kozume speaks up, catching onto the tail of the Head's sentence. "Lock me in place of him. Let him go."

"Oh?" At Kozume's daring counter, the Head's wings splay, a pure white flecked with silver embellishments - and to Akaashi's horror, mangled to the point of no return, crooked at the tips. "And you're not the one who makes that decision, Kenma-kun. Besides, you know I can't operate without you."

"Find someone else."

"Can't. Akaashi, is there anything else you want to say?"

Akaashi nods mutely. "Kozume-san, I appreciate your kindness. But this is not your place to take blame nor responsibility."

"This is for Kuroo Tetsurou's death." And for a second, time ticks to a stop. "This is how I'll pay for my failure."

"You really think this is going to help him?" The Head laughs, a bell-like ring. "Please, Kenma, your jokes are impeccable as always."

"This isn't a joke -"

The Head holds out a palm. "Do please be quiet, Kozume- _san_." He turns to face Akaashi once more, and Akaashi draws back, just slightly, under the intense gaze the mask seems to deliver. The only question asked that day surprises him, but for once, his voice is steady.

"Did you have fun, Keiji?"

He thinks back to laughter-stained nights, of tosses he'd mastered, of the smiles he'd earned.

The answer leaves Akaashi's mouth, and all is silent.

* * *

On a blustery, cold day, Bokuto Koutarou exits his home, wearing a cashmere scarf and mitts.

Autumn leaves have begun to fall, a show of red and orange and brown lacing the streets, swirling like little dancers in the wind. They whisk around Bokuto's hair before trailing away, into the mist covering the city in the morning.

Mornings are strangely enticing. It resounds with an emptiness that is almost endearing, its quaintness displayed by the bite in the air, the flickering of street lamps, and the mist shrouding the trees. Bokuto loves the night, with its smattering of stars and the warmth of hot chocolate pressing against his palms, but he's starting to like the tranquility of mornings. It reminds him of someone far away.

His hand finds the pocket of his jacket, and he pulls out the object, smoothing down the tips - a feather, off-white with a dusting of grey - it was a parting gift, Bokuto truly believes, a reminder of days gone by, and an anchor to hold on to as each new day emerges from the rising sun.

At the intersection, there are no cars. It's Sunday, after all, and the sun isn't out. Bokuto is only out and about because he found it hard to sleep. It is at the corner of that very intersection when Bokuto senses someone lurking in the shadows, and the hairs on his neck stand on end.

"Who's there?" he says, soft to not disturb the silence, but loud enough so that he could be heard from a block away. Maybe too loud? "Where -"

His scarf, a deep red, flutters in the wind.

The sun peeks out of its hiding spot, and even as it is the signal of dawn it feels like _twilight,_ somewhere closed off of the world, in between time and circumstance.

Akaashi's dark eyes crinkle at the edges. "Hey, Bokuto-san," he whispers, "I'm back."

* * *

 **A/N** Thank you all for staying with this story!

As previously mentioned, this fic had multiple issues regarding characterization and such, but unlike some other works, I'm not going back to rewrite/edit. I'm also not going to revisit this world anytime soon.

A few author notes before we end here:

1\. Aokigahara - Google it. It might deliver some insight as to who the envoys really are.

2\. Oikawa Tooru - He used to have some interesting backstory, having to do with his last charge, Iwaizumi, who, by some mishap, lost the ability to reincarnate. Oikawa's punishment, in a sense, is to relive this guilt through multiple offenses the envoys working under him may commit. I never really elaborated on this idea, though.

3\. Black Cat - This is Kuroo (reincarnated)! Even though he's not in the last chapter, he's still living in Bokuto's home.

On a happier note, this is the first fic I've ever finished? °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

Thanks again for your continued support, you're awesome! Looking forward to improving my writing bit by bit with my next few fics.

— Kyt


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